


Ordinary

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Heavy Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Manga Spoilers, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4016806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But for Gokudera there’s nothing, or perhaps it’s just that his constant dread of the future has dulled his attention to such things, so when Yamamoto is a few minutes late to meeting him after school he doesn’t think anything of it." Gokudera is the one to find Yamamoto instead of Ryohei.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary

There’s no advance warning. Gokudera has heard of premonitions, vague senses of foreboding or a sudden urge to change a routine established by years, near-misses averted by a sudden burst of intuition or a sixth sense. But for him there’s nothing, or perhaps it’s just that his constant dread of the future has dulled his attention to such things, so when Yamamoto is a few minutes late to meeting him after school he doesn’t think anything of it. It’s just a tiny deviation from their usual, barely worth noting and not worth remembering, an ordinary part of an ordinary day.

Gokudera’s not thinking about anything at all as he makes his way over to the baseball club’s locker rooms. There’s the vague shape of a criticism in his mind, some snapped irritation to get Yamamoto soft and apologetic, maybe the faint idea of taking advantage of such to steal a kiss off the other boy. Gokudera’s thinking about sushi, in some distant part of his mind, calculating how much homework he has and how much of his afternoon he can afford to waste letting Yamamoto curl up against him while they watch TV or a movie or a baseball game. There’s nothing to interrupt his lazy internal monologue, nothing to bring his focus in to the present, even when he pulls open the door to the locker room and everything is perfectly silent.

“Yamamoto?” Gokudera calls, just in case the other is still inside in spite of the quiet. His footsteps echo off the floor as he steps inside, as the door falls shut behind him. “Hey, baseball idiot, you still here?” He heads for the corner to the lockers proper, certain now that he’s the only one in the space but wanting to check anyway, starting to frown at the implication that Yamamoto left without him.

Then he rounds the corner, and sees the red, and everything ordinary and normal and comfortable evaporates all at once.

He doesn’t realize what it is, at first. The color is too bright, there’s too much of it, it looks more like paint or ink spreading out over the floor and under the form lying breathlessly still in the middle of it. Gokudera’s first thought is that it’s some kind of a prank, some joke in exceedingly poor taste Reborn thought up. Then he blinks, and the color turns into blood, and the body turns into Yamamoto, and his stomach starts dropping and doesn’t stop, like all the gravity of the world has vanished all at once.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t even shout Yamamoto’s name. It’s too still in the room, his chest too entirely absent of air for that. He just moves, stumbling forward with complete disregard for the blood staining his shoes and soaking into his jeans when he drops to his knees and reaches out to grab at Yamamoto’s shoulder. It’s not until he touches the other boy that he thinks -- but no, he’s warm still, still pliant with the heat of life in his veins, even if he moves with the absolute weight of true unconsciousness. It’s hard to see what happened, even when Gokudera gets Yamamoto turned over onto his back -- the blood is washing everything into a single horrific pool of color, and Gokudera’s head is swimming, his vision crystal-clear and his thoughts completely incapable of processing what he’s seeing. He stares at the torn fabric of Yamamoto’s uniform for what feels like minutes before he realizes it’s cut, like a sword came down through cloth and skin alike, and then he has to look away or he’s going to be sick. Yamamoto’s face is covered in blood, too --  _his blood_ , Gokudera thinks for a moment, and then skitters back from that awareness too -- his familiar features made into a grim mask by the color and the slack heaviness of unconsciousness. But he’s warm, he’s alive, this will be okay, and then Gokudera reaches out to press his fingers to the other’s throat, and he can’t find a pulse.

He can’t breathe for a moment. His heart is hammering itself into double-time, adrenaline catching up with the first stunned ice of the discovery, and maybe he’s just suffering from immense time dilation, maybe he just needs to wait longer. But nothing, nothing, maybe his hand is in the wrong place, he’s leaning in and pressing both hands in against the sides of Yamamoto’s neck, fumbling for the heartbeat he can’t see that  _has_  to be there.

He can’t find it, he can’t see, and then he chokes on a breath and there’s a splash against Yamamoto’s cheek, and Gokudera realizes he’s crying, his shoulders shaking with panic and responsibility too much for him to bear.

“No,” he’s saying, and “ _No_ ,” louder, leaning in closer like he can grant Yamamoto life by sharing his own. Yamamoto is warm under his hands, he  _can’t_  be dead; there’s motion against Gokudera’s lips, that has to be Yamamoto’s breathing, however faint. He has to get help, he has to fix this, but he can’t leave, he can’t get his hands to move from Yamamoto’s sticky skin. Gokudera is shaking, his entire body trembling as his brain skids on overdrive, reaches for all the first aid knowledge he has ever known and ever used. But there’s no tools, there’s no bandages and no one within shouting distance, there’s just him and Yamamoto and the faint flickering rhythm of Yamamoto’s fading breathing against his lips.

It’s then that Gokudera’s hand slips, the rings on his fingers skidding a little from his grip, and there’s a surge of hope in him, optimism as quick to hit as despair on the adrenaline rushing through him in place of blood. Sun flames, of course, he should have thought of those, the healing properties vague but good enough under the circumstances. It takes a moment to bring them up -- his hands are shaking, his heart pounding with more pressure than he’s ever been under before -- but he does, finally, coats his fingertips in the faint sparkle of light that’s the best he’s ever been able to manage for this flame type. He reaches out for Yamamoto’s chest, like he’s trying to cover the wound with his palm, hovers his hand there while he leans in as close as he can get to the other boy’s mouth.

For a few seconds he thinks its working. Every hissing inhale feels like a victory, his fast-pounding heart convincing him that they’re coming more strongly and more rhythmically. But then they take on a wet sound, a stuttering catch like Yamamoto is struggling even unconsciously, and when Gokudera breathes in his own inhales are wet too, turning into sobs until he can’t sustain the useless Sun flames at his fingertips.

“No,” he says again, “Takeshi,” like it’s a prayer, and then his hands are back against Yamamoto’s neck, sliding up over his face, his thumbs sweeping over the familiar lines of the other boy’s cheekbones. The contact takes the worst of the blood with it, draws Gokudera’s hand pushing against the red across Yamamoto’s forehead too, until he looks almost normal, until it’s Gokudera’s fingers instead of Yamamoto’s face coated in the other’s blood.

“Takeshi,” he says again, faint and desperate, and Yamamoto chokes on a breath, the sound loud enough for a moment Gokudera thinks he’s miraculously coming to and about to speak. Then the sound goes long, wet and harsh and grating in Yamamoto’s throat, and the strength goes out of Gokudera’s shoulders, drops him forward over the other boy’s chest.

“ _No_ ,” he wails, a plea to some uncaring god, “ _Fuck_ , no, Takeshi, I can’t, not you,  _help_  me” but Yamamoto’s shoulders are shuddering under him, convulsions too familiar for Gokudera to misidentify as anything other than oncoming death. “I need you, I  _love_  you” and he’s leaning in, pressing his mouth desperately to Yamamoto’s like it’s a fairy tale, like a kiss will push back the impending doom and bring them a happy-ever-after. But there’s no response, Yamamoto’s lips are still under his like they’ve never been before, and when the tremors stop Gokudera doesn’t have to pull away to know Yamamoto’s breathing has too.

It’s the sobs that finally break him away, horrible wracking things that jerk all through his shoulders and down his spine like some huge unseen force is shaking him by his neck. Gokudera can’t think, can’t process the scope of this, can’t imagine a future beyond the endless, infinite loss of this moment.

For all his pessimism, he has never prepared for this.


End file.
